


Tonight You're Gonna Go Down in Flames

by Mosca



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny and Ryan play video games. And other games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight You're Gonna Go Down in Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sandyk, Shaughraun, Shoesforall, and Thistle for beta reading and handholding. I originally wrote this for the Lilpinktassel fic challenge and posted it to my Livejournal in August 2010. The title is from "Just Like Jesse James" by Cher.
> 
> This fic contains irresponsible drug and alcohol use; characters with internalized homophobia issues; non-explicit descriptions of m/f sex; and people treating each other badly in the name of love.

**ONE.**

Johnny has to bring a plus one to this AIDS Project L.A. event. Everybody brings a plus one, says the organizer, better to have even numbers. Johnny is not at the point where he can turn things down. He's also not at the point where he can demand to be the exception and fly solo like he always has. This is maybe why he's been invited, to smoke him out of his glass closet. He's gotten used to the leading questions in every interview, but this is a new approach.

He has nobody to bring. Boz is busy with school and hates this shit anyway. His girl friends are too private or too famous, and he can't stomach showing up with a girl again, not to an AIDS event and not when the irony is so easy to miss. But he doesn't want to bring a guy who might be mistaken for his boyfriend, either, and that eliminates pretty much all of his friends with a penis. 

He's thinking too hard, and that's nothing new. All of the things Johnny has aspired to be require him to be dumb. Athlete, socialite, fashionista diva extraordinaire. A person can excel in all of those fields and not be smart enough to remember their underwear.

He's vacuuming. It's 9 PM. His neighbors must hate him so much right now. Fuck them.

Johnny decides to let God decide, and tonight God speaks through WiiConnect. Online video games are where the boys are. Every year at Nats, someone's shocked to find him playing Madden with the ice dancers, but he loves the safety of his straight friends. Johnny's about as good at video games as anyone would expect him to be, but the point is the company. No, the point is competing but having it mean nothing, and at the end of the night the hard drive will erase all his failures.

People are doing shows, on vacation, training too hard to be up this late, out having a life. His network's quiet. Ryan's there, though, still laid up from surgery. Ryan will always be his friend, always be everyone's friend. They play NHL. In a floral mood, Johnny plays as the Maple Leafs. Ryan's Red Wings kick his ass, but Johnny is proud to get a goal in.

At the end of the game, Johnny calls Colorado. "Want to do something ridiculous?"

Ryan is always up for something ridiculous, and more so when he's bored. "What do you mean, it's not 'til next week?" he teases. 

Johnny is giving Ryan all these instructions: bring a suit and a couple of shirts but don't expect to wind up wearing them, don't shave so the stylist has options, book a flight but someone will meet him at LAX. All this stuff Johnny has learned on the job. His brain is full of Styrofoam and glitter, but Styrofoam and glitter have their uses.

~o~

Ryan is going to a party in L.A., and he tells everyone he knows because it seems unreal. His friends make big sarcastic production numbers out of pretending to be impressed. He spends the whole week thinking about how he's going to behave, what personality he's going to fake for the fake people who will never meet him again. He can't possibly be himself – what a wasted opportunity that would be.

He lets his beard grow for three days because Johnny told him to. It makes him look like he's been on a week-long bender by the time he boards the plane. Under his clothes, it's a different story: he spent a whole afternoon at the salon, getting everything done, even the really painful parts nobody is going to see. He has two new shirts that he does not expect to wear, because Colorado Springs, God love it, is not the fashion capital of anywhere.

On the plane, the lady next to him talks the whole time. She gets him to admit he knows Johnny Weir and Evan Lysacek. She has no idea who Ryan is because he wasn't in Vancouver, but she wants his autograph. He has a feeling that's how his whole weekend is going to go.

At the airport, no one is holding up a sign with his name on it, but a blonde woman comes up to him at the baggage claim, and he's whisked away for several hours of clothes, hair, and makeup. He has no idea where Johnny is. Maybe they're being kept separate, like it's their wedding night. 

They're reunited after one final round of whisking that ends with the two of them in a car to the party. Johnny can turn the most lackluster USFSA banquet into a fashion extravaganza, but Ryan has seldom seen him turn the lights up this high. He looks like an alien from Planet Gay, shiny jacket and pointy shoes, flowing women's camisole that drapes to show his chest, hair teased high in the middle and swooping back into a blond tuft at his neck. But under all that is Ryan's old friend, who squeezes him and kisses his cheeks. "You look gorgeous," Johnny says. 

Ryan doesn't have words to describe how Johnny looks. "You too."

Johnny nudges him as if to loosen him up. "It's just like a competition. Except they don't let you run off somewhere and cry after four minutes and forty seconds if you fuck it up."

~o~

Johnny doesn't understand why Ryan isn't talking to girls. Overall, Ryan's doing great, especially for his first high-profile soiree. He makes the rounds and doesn't get too drunk. Friendly, jokey Ryan who makes everyone feel like they've known him since they were kids – he's a hit at parties. He doesn't need a babysitter.

But the room is full of leggy, gorgeous girls – models, actresses, singer-songwriters – in search of a straight guy they haven't already fucked. Johnny has arranged for Ryan to be wrapped up like the beautiful gift he is inside, and Ryan isn't taking advantage of that at all. He's talking to middle-aged queens, not even going up to the girls.

Johnny wants to stand up on top of a table, tap on a glass, and ask, "Why aren't you fucking my friend? What are you girls thinking?" _He_ would fuck Ryan in a minute, if only Ryan would let him.

Once his mind starts on that path, he can hardly figure out how to have fun anymore. He worked so hard to find a nonthreatening date. But it's that time of the month or something, because sex with someone other than his hand sounds like a fabulous idea, and every time he looks sideways at this new GQ version of Ryan, he starts to regret leggings. As an entire fashion concept.

Ryan has finally found some brunette to show his etchings to, and the party is winding down. Johnny leaves his assigned car for Ryan and takes a plain old taxi back to the hotel. Slumming it feels good once in a while. He's found Ryan a girl, and that's a good deed.

His hotel room has a jacuzzi. Really just a bathtub with jets, but close enough. He takes off his party clothes and sinks into the hot, bubbly water with his hand on his dick and his imagination on all the men he can never have.

~o~

Her name is Monica, and Ryan doesn't bring her back to the hotel. He says something about the girl from _Friends,_ and she laughs flatly, like every guy she's ever turned down has come up with that one. He steps back and asks her questions so she'll tell him about herself, assuming at some point she'll feed him a joke and he'll be back in.

Instead, she has the most boring life history Ryan has ever heard, and plus, she wants to tell him all about her relationship with Jesus. He doesn't have anything against religion, but Christ, he could have gotten this in the Springs. Ryan wonders if it's misogynistic to turn Monica down because she's boring, but no, it would be worse to sleep with her despite disliking her. Contemptuous. He texts Bates: "LA scene party = personal hell. Plz send spaceship." 

Johnny has not left Ryan a spaceship, but he _has_ left the car to wait. Ryan spends the long solo ride back to the hotel thinking about how he could never live like this. He can dress up and schmooze and laugh and lie, but he can't enjoy it.

Somewhere in the middle of the ride, the driver says, "No girl?"

Ryan says, "Not tonight," as if there were other nights with girls in them, as if he hasn't been riding a two-year wave of monastic devotion to the ice that has grown habitual and frustrating.

His bags are already in his hotel room. He could just go to sleep, but he's been lonesome all evening and hardly seen Johnny, who was his whole reason for coming. He texts Johnny: "Room #?" The way they have at competitions over the years, looking for a party or trying to start one.

There's a long wait for Johnny's reply, and Ryan wonders if he's in a different hotel or already in bed. Or already in bed and not alone. But Johnny texts back, and in a few minutes, Ryan is at his door. He feels like he should be sixteen, concealing a bottle of Captain Morgan's in his backpack, ready for an adventure on the high seas.

Johnny answers the door in a bathrobe-like garment, thigh-length red silk with a brown fur collar. His hair is wet, his eye makeup smudged like watercolors in the rain. "I was in the bath," he apologizes. "What happened to that girl you were talking to?"

"Didn't work out," Ryan says. "But thanks for inviting me. I had a good time." He pulls Johnny into a back-slapping dude hug and is surprised to feel that Johnny is _really_ happy to see him. Ryan should ignore it and protect Johnny's dignity, but he's thinking about how easy it would be to untie Johnny's bathrobe and give him some assistance. The fantasy wakes Ryan's own dick up, not enough that Johnny would notice, but enough to make Ryan reconsider the entire hug.

Johnny invites Ryan in and pops open a bottle of champagne from a gift basket, explaining, "It's from the Japanese girls. God only knows how they figured out I'm here, but I could use a little bubb-leh." He shimmies and kicks up his heel. He's always acted like the star of his own movie, and now that he's actually playing himself on TV, he seems more self-conscious and sarcastic about it. Johnny hands Ryan one plastic flute of champagne and raises the other. "To the future," he toasts. "If either of us even have one."

Ryan drains his glass and kisses Johnny.

It's not planned. It's practically a reflex. A shared one: Johnny seems to fall into the kiss naturally, reaching up into Ryan's lips, making mm-shaped sighs into his mouth. Ryan is trying to remember the last time anyone has kissed him, and he's coming up short. No wonder Johnny was so determined to find him a girl.

Johnny's dick is pressing into Ryan's leg. Boys like Johnny - the ones so gay they can't walk a straight line – they pretend they don't need it and they don't care, but all they want is for a guy like Ryan to touch their dicks. So Ryan slides his hand up Johnny's robe and gropes for Johnny's dick. Johnny lets out a moan, loud and long as a prayer. Ryan drops to his knees and takes Johnny's dick into his mouth slowly, just the tip at first but gaining inches along with confidence. Johnny holds the back of Ryan's head, pushing Ryan harder than he can handle over Johnny's length. Johnny is growling, "Oh God, oh God," and Ryan hopes he's as close as he sounds, because if it gets any bigger, Ryan's mouth is too small. Sucking dick is harder work than he remembers, and he can't do more than keep up. But it seems to be enough for Johnny, who is coming hard, telling Ryan things he'll want Ryan to forget by morning.

Ryan forces himself to swallow. When he rises, Johnny is leaning against the mirrored closet door, sweat beading his face. He vines his leg around Ryan's and unbuttons Ryan's shirt. "That wasn't charity, was it?" he breathes.

"It seemed like you were into it," Ryan says.

Johnny brushes his fingers over Ryan's crotch. It tickles, and Ryan tries to free himself. "Are you?" Johnny says.

"Sure. Why not." Ryan doesn't want to sound too eager. If Johnny wants to beg off, he shouldn't feel obligated. But instead, he looks hurt and dismissed. he's still that brittle kid who needs everyone to love him most of all – that's why he's getting his picture taken on so many red carpets. Realizing that, Ryan eases up on him. "No, I mean, I really want you to."

Johnny smiles, shy and catlike, smoothing his hands over Ryan's chest. Seconds later, Ryan is getting the best blow job of his life so far. Partially, it's because he hasn't seen action in ages, but mostly he thinks it's Johnny's skilled tongue, his soft and precise hands on Ryan's ass. Ryan closes his eyes, trying to lose himself. He begs for harder and gets it, clenching his toes to hold back and last longer. The never-ending perfect blow job. But the pleasure overtakes him and it does end, the orgasm less exciting than the journey there.

Johnny is waiting for him in bed with a fresh glass of champagne, his robe untied but covering him. Ryan's pants are around his ankles. He leaves them on top of his shoes and socks but pulls up his underwear. In those and his open shirt, he curls up next to Johnny.

Johnny tilts Ryan's chin into a kiss, saying, "It has been for. Ever. Thank you."

"Anytime," Ryan says, meaning it. "It's not like I've been getting much, either. Or any."

"Yeah, you're like me. Someone touches your dick and your jumps all go out the window."

"Good thing I'm not allowed back on the ice for another month," Ryan says.

"And even then," Johnny says. "You and I are both so washed up. Wrinkled, sad old skaters."

"Might as well fuck." Ryan's getting into the rhythm of this depressing joke. "What's the difference?"

"God, I missed you." Johnny squeezes Ryan and rests his head on Ryan's chest. "Just, you know, way back when we used to hang out. When we were the only two sane people and everyone else was _serious._ " He jumps up onto his feet, and Ryan can see all the way up his robe. "Promise me. Promise me this won't get weird."

"It's gonna get weird," Ryan says.

**TWO.**

It gets weird.

It takes a while for Johnny to notice, since he's so busy wearing fabulous outfits in incredible places. Making friends he knows he won't keep and still not having sex with any of them. He's waiting backstage in hair and makeup for a talk show, playing with his phone, and he sees Ryan's number from a few weeks ago. He hears the silence, but seconds later, the production assistants are swarming so he can't hear anything.

In the evening, he's on a plane to Japan for a skating show, looking forward to the karaoke bus and some serious shopping. He loves the other side of the world. It's a broken-down-old-bitch show, and they've all gathered in Stéphane's hotel room to complain about their knees and backs. Tomas still has a year or two of competition left; the rest of them are completely out to pasture. It's like the beginning of _Cocoon._

The topic of the pity party shifts from war wounds to not getting laid. Stéphane is off again with both of the guys he's been stringing along. Zhenya got caught cheating on his wife and has been sleeping on the couch when he's not been on tour. He turns to Johnny and says, "You're quiet. Who are _you_ fucking?"

Johnny holds up his hand, wiggles his fingers, and smiles.

"He loves himself," Stéphane says. "He doesn't need someone else."

Tomas, who's in such bliss with Nathalie that he probably shouldn't be in the room right now, is the one to question Johnny, but he waits courteously until they're on their way back to their own rooms. He should be oblivious, but he's the opposite. Maybe he's so in love, he wants everyone else to feel what he feels. "Did you sleep with someone?" His accent makes it sound like an interrogation.

Johnny shrugs and grins secretively.

"Someone famous?"

"Less famous than me," Johnny says.

Tomas tilts his head to the side as if searching for clues. But Johnny's very good at hiding evidence when he wants to.

He's dying to tell.

Tomas is neutral. They have no history other than friendship, and because Tomas is a few years younger, Johnny doesn't go as far back with him as with some of the others. Tomas isn't going to judge, and so Johnny lets his guard down. He winks and swoops his hand up over his head, Mozart-style.

"Ballet dancer?" Tomas guesses. "Oh. _Skater._ I think - I thought you don't... do skaters."

"Fell off the wagon," Johnny says. Tomas looks perplexed, so Johnny adds, "It was just once."

"You won't tell me who, of course." Tomas pretends to pout. "You'll let me guess?"

"I'll play that game," Johnny says.

"Man or woman?"

Johnny rolls his eyes.

"Sometimes I'm surprised," Tomas says. "What country?"

Johnny's having fun now. He whistles "The Star-Spangled Banner" until Tomas seems to recognize it.

"Curly hair?" Tomas says.

"Straight." Johnny leans on the word, hinting at the extra clue.

Tomas looks puzzled. There are a _lot_ of curly-haired boys in US figure skating. "Someone you _like?_ "

"Old friend."

"Someone I know?"

"I'm sure you've met." Johnny says.

"Have we competed together?" 

"I think he's _beaten_ you." Johnny's tired of playing, so he's giving it away. "I know he's beaten _me._ "

"Oh!" The lights in Tomas's eyes switch on. "Backflips."

The secret has weighed heavy on Johnny, and he hasn't realized it. He feels like he's dieted off his summer fat. "Backflips."

Tomas furrows his brow. "Why is it bad? Why are you keeping it secret?"

"I don't know what he thinks. We haven't talked." Johnny's fidgeting with his hands. He finds a nail with a rough edge and plays with it, making it worse. "It wasn't supposed to happen."

"Everything is supposed to happen." Tomas gestures up at the sky. "It's supposed to happen, or it doesn't."

They're standing outside Tomas's room, and Nathalie pokes her head out of the door, saying she's been wondering what was taking them so long. Miki wants to take them all somewhere for a night out. "Oh," she says. "It was a serious conversation."

"It's fine," Johnny says quickly. "We're done."

Tomas glares at Johnny sternly, but he doesn't push. Instead, he glides off with his girlfriend. They look like a matched pair of salt shakers. Johnny envies happy couples when he first looks at them, but then he remembers what relationships are like. It's fun to go window shopping, but he wouldn't want to buy.

~o~

Ryan is in Detroit for two reasons: to guest-coach jump clinics at Arctic Edge Ice Arena and to log record-breaking hours of NHL 10 with Bates and Charlie. Unfortunately, Charlie has blown him off for Tanith-related activities, leaving him alone with Bates, who is complaining about how much play he's not getting. "You'd _think,_ " Bates is saying, "with the male-to-female ratio at your typical ice rink. You'd think we'd be having _some_ sex. Occasionally."

"You're saying this while playing video games on a stained couch while wearing a Jay-Z shirt with a hole in it," Ryan says. 

"What do girls have against Jay-Z?"

"I just think, after a while, we stop trying," Ryan says. "Or are trying not to."

"So you purposely make yourself as gross as possible so you can land your jumps?" Bates says. "Now, that's a theory."

"Which you can't use, because Emily would -"

"Ridicule me publicly. And make me listen to her talk about Edward Cullen." At this point, they are barely playing. The action on the virtual ice is an affront to the sport of hockey.

"Always thought of you as more of a Jacob," Ryan says.

Bates pauses the game and turns to Ryan with a fake-nasty glare. "Has it gotten that bad?"

"Has what gotten what bad?" Ryan tries to unpause the game, but Bates has the default controller.

"The drought. _Your_ drought."

"Yeah, the past three weeks have been brutal," Ryan says. Then, he hears himself and tenses. Is he admitting that this happened? Well, better to go with it. "Unless oral doesn't count."

Loudly, Bates places his controller on the coffee table, making it clear that Ryan is never going to get to play hockey again. "Depends."

" _Depends?_ On _what?_ "

"Context," Bates says.

" _Context?_ "

"The context of, nobody ever thinks oral counts unless it was with a guy, and if it was a girl, you would have texted me thirty seconds after she left, even if it _was_ just oral." Bates sits back on his pride. " _Context._ "

Ryan picks up Bates's controller and unpauses the game. He sits on Bates's controller and scores two goals on him. 

"You brought it up," Bates says. "If you didn't want me to know, you wouldn't've."

Ryan is sick of holding his secrets in. It's not even like he and Johnny agreed to keep it quiet. Johnny's probably told half of Europe by now. "You know that party Weir took me to in L.A.?"

"No fucking way," Bates says. "No _fucking_ way. Weir doesn't hook up with anyone."

"So Tanith cock blocked you in the Olympic Village?"

Bates ignores him, but Ryan senses from his moment of silence that the words have stung. "Was he good?" Bates says.

"Unbelievable."

"Fuck you." On the screen, Bates fouls egregiously.

"Okay, it was terrible, he was incompetent."

"Thanks for letting me stop picturing you," Bates says.

"So I guess I should call him," Ryan says.

"Probably a good guess."

They're sort of back to playing hockey now, although not very well. "I can't figure out what I'd say," Ryan says.

"Thanks for the unbelievable blow job. Let's do it again sometime." Bates pauses like he's waiting for a laugh, and Ryan gives him one. "Seriously, though, he's a dude. A dude in mascara and a fur stole, but still fundamentally a guy."

"You're so fucking helpful." But Bates kind of knows what he's talking about. Ryan and Johnny are both waiting for the other one to call. Waiting to be swept away, waiting for instructions.

~o~

Johnny is at a club, nursing a martini and networking, when Ryan calls. Johnny wants to answer, not because he expects phone sex, but because the jet lag and Ambien have been fueling dreams where he gets this call. He needs to make sure it's real. But he can't escape: having fun is his job now, and it's surprisingly hard work. Money and long hours can take the joy out of anything.

He texts Ryan back. "Out being fabulous! How late r u up?"

Dillon, Johnny's new best friend, throws an arm around Johnny's shoulder. Johnny says, "Skating friend."

"I thought you kicked all those bitches out," Dillon says.

"I hung onto a few. They're not all bitches. And unlike you, some of them put out." Johnny tries not to sound too disappointed in Dillon. He was all touchy-gropey at Johnny's birthday party, but when Johnny began making noises about the PATH train home and how really, it would be nice if he could crash somewhere in the city, Dillon had given him a chaste peck on the lips and said he was a really fun person. Johnny has forgiven Dillon, because being seen with a guy that hot is its own privilege, and Johnny's celebrity plus Dillon's beauty get them to the head of the line everywhere important.

Dillon looks confused, or possibly just dumb. "You never asked."

"I don't want to ask. I want to be pursued. Like a princess." He holds up his phone, which has just vibrated to announce a new text. "And look. _Pursuit._ "

The text says, "4 u ill wait up all night."

Johnny usually closes out parties, but tonight, he leaves as soon as it's polite, early enough to catch the train back to Jersey but sober enough to remember he'll be recognized if he stoops to public transportation. In the car, he rolls down the windows to take in the breeze and the lights, and he calls Ryan back. "Where have _you_ been, stranger?" 

"Detroit. Hanging with the cool kids," Ryan says.

"You should come to New York," Johnny says. "I'll show you who the real cool kids are."

"I think we proved that's not really my scene." Ryan sounds a little envious, or maybe that's how Johnny wants him to sound.

"It's New York. It's gigantic. Everyone's scene is here somewhere. I'll take you to Greenpoint. It's all guys in t-shirts with ironic haircuts. They'll think you're a local."

"Or you could come to Colorado." Ryan proposes this as if it's a serious suggestion.

"I hate Colorado," Johnny says.

"Yeah, well, I live here." 

"Well, you should move," Johnny says. "Because I'm never visiting you there."

"Who invited you?" Ryan says. He's quiet for a second, but he's still there. "I can find someone else to suck my dick."

"Yeah, because we're both doing such a fantastic job of that," Johnny sneers. And that's the problem: if it weren't for his sarcastic mouth, he'd have Dillon's lips around his dick right now. Although he'd rather have Ryan and _his_ sarcastic mouth. Quality over quantity.

"So meet me halfway," Ryan says. "Detroit."

"I'm booked solid," Johnny complains. "It's cuckoo. I barely sleep." Sneaking off to Detroit sounds tempting, not just for Ryan and his unbelievable dick, but because Tanith and Charles have a new apartment, and Tanith is exploding in her panties to give Johnny the tour. But Johnny has meetings for his fashion line and events to attend, and they are his job now. "Are they doing any shows there? Rink benefits or whatever? I can bug Tara to get me booked."

"I can ask around." Ryan sounds cold and flat. Johnny fears he has broken Ryan's heart a little. But maybe that's arrogance.

**THREE**

Ryan doesn't try calling again. He doesn't fit into Johnny's busy schedule. Pictures from parties show up on Facebook every Monday morning, and Johnny is handsy with a different guy every time. Ryan filled a conspicuous empty line on Johnny's dance card, and now Johnny's making it clear that he's dancing with everyone he can.

Ryan shouldn't have let Bates fill him with delusions of having a boyfriend. Ryan has other things to do. He's organizing a fundraiser for the Broadmoor club and assistant-coaching for Tom; he's taking two summer courses so he can get his last few college credits out of the way. And he's in PT a couple of hours a day, trying to get the all-clear to put his skates back on.

He's on the ice in time for the TV contracts he signed before he broke his foot, but he's too delicate to land anything bigger than a double salchow. No backflips, no Russian splits, no fun, doctor's orders. He can live without his triples – those have always been unreliable scene queens who don't call back – but how is he supposed to put on a show without his tricks? Screw doctor's orders; it's one day, and it's not like he needs that foot for anything.

The show is filming in Ohio. It's one of those cheesefests for charity. Now that Ryan's back living with his parents, the check will pay his expenses for a month or two.

Johnny's waiting in the hotel lobby. He's clearly trying to be inconspicuous in his Red Sox hat and black t-shirt, but the pointy shoes and the Russian fashion magazine give him away. While Ryan checks in, he mulls his options. Johnny is probably waiting for someone else.

All the more reason to hug-tackle him. Johnny squeezes back, kicking his legs into the air so Ryan can barely hold him. "I didn't know you were doing this show," Ryan says dumbly.

"I'm stalking you," Johnny says. "For real, I found out which shows you were in and got Tara to make them hire me." He pokes a finger into Ryan's chest. "Look what I have to stoop to when you won't call me."

"I didn't think you wanted me to," Ryan says.

Johnny starts to say something but puts his finger to his own lips. "Let's not have this conversation in a lobby where people speak English."

"My place or yours?" Ryan says.

"Why don't we get you settled?" Johnny curtsies, then takes command of Ryan's suitcase, wheeling it to the elevator like Ryan is supposed to know what this gesture means.

In Ryan's room, there's not so much conversation. There is mostly kissing and taking off clothes. They land on the bed with a thud and a creak, shirts and shoes drawing a ragged path back to the door. Ryan leans down to tug Johnny's jeans the rest of the way off. Johnny says, "You always go right for my dick."

What does he mean, "always"? This is their second time, and Ryan wasn't going for his dick anyway. "Do you want me to go for something else?"

"No, it's refreshing." Johnny grabs Ryan's butt with both hands like he's checking it for ripeness. "How are you so _nice_ to me?"

"If I'm not nice to you, you won't suck my dick," Ryan says.

Johnny snaps the waistband of Ryan's briefs. "I am _way_ more desperate than you think I am." 

And despite being both nearly naked, they're friends again, frightened and frustrated teenagers, lost in some hotel room in some city. "Did you sleep with someone who wasn't nice to you?" Ryan says.

Johnny crawls back on his hands toward the headboard. "Why? Did you think I was going to sit on my dick and wait around for you?"

"I hope you didn't. That'd be uncomfortable."

"So you're not jealous?"

"I didn't even think this was going to happen twice," Ryan says.

"Well. Good." But Johnny looks let down, put out, shelved away.

"Do you want me to be jealous? Because I can be jealous." Ryan puts on his best flamenco-tango jilted-lover face. "I can't believe you fucked someone else after our... night of no-strings friend sex." He swings a fake slap past Johnny's cheek. "And he wasn't even _nice._ How dare you." He's almost laughing, but he holds it in.

Johnny is all limbs, clinging to Ryan like an octopus, kissing his neck. He's pushing Ryan down, twisting and grinding over him, winding up with Ryan's chest between his knees and his ass in Ryan's face. Ryan slides underneath Johnny to get at his dick. Johnny stretches forward and sixty-nines him, the warmth of Johnny's mouth such a pleasurable shock that Ryan almost comes on contact. But keeping Johnny's dick in his mouth takes some coordination and concentration, and that puts Ryan in control of his own body. He gets Johnny off, then lets himself release before Johnny can collapse in a heap of satisfaction. The reward for a blow job well done, an he laughs at the joke in his head, refusing to tell it to Johnny.

~o~

They get the same text at the same time from Charlie, asking them where the fuck they are. Ryan hits send before Johnny can swat his phone out of his hand, so now Charlie knows that Ryan is putting his pants on after hot sex. "He'll think I'm kidding," Ryan says.

"Not if I text him the exact same thing," Johnny chirps.

"No, then he'll think we're _both_ kidding." Ryan is putting on clean underwear and fixing his hair even though he doesn't have a shirt on. Johnny is looking for his Red Sox hat when he realizes he's put his t-shirt on inside-out. Nonetheless, they manage to dress themselves and make their way to Tanith and Charlie's room. It's like they're in costume, disguised as people who didn't just rip each other's clothes off and blow each other.

The show's cast is like a high school reunion. Tanith and Ben, Meryl and Charlie, Jeremy, Joannie. There's lots of hugging and squealing, because that's the language of figure skaters. Everyone tells Johnny how great it is to see him, and he gets the impression that most of them aren't lying.

They get the hotel shuttle driver to chauffeur them to the Cheesecake Factory. No figure skater should be within fifty yards of a restaurant with "cheesecake" in the name, in Johnny's opinion, but it's safely recognizable and Tanith promises there will be salads. "Girl, you're retired," Johnny says, patting her toned stomach. "You can _eat_ cheesecake."

"So can you," she replies. "And you'll lose the weight in time for your comeback. Which will be never."

"Hey, I'm keeping my options open," Johnny says.

He splits an enormous Midwestern salad with Tanith. Ben orders a slice of strawberry cheesecake for the retired and mostly-retired, holding the plate up like a wine glass when it arrives and toasting to old age. "Moment of truth," Ben says. "If you're ever going to compete again, no cheesecake for you." He forks off a big bite and passes the plate to Tanith. She takes a slow, sexy spoonful. Joannie takes hers, too, looking relieved and nostalgic.

And then there's a plate of Johnny's favorite dessert in front of him, and eating it would be the truth. Ryan's across from him, leaning back as far away from the cake as he can without falling out of his chair. "You first," Johnny says.

"I'm not done," Ryan says. "I'm going to Nationals."

"My ass. Eat your cake."

"After you." Ryan pushes the plate forward.

"I'm just taking the year off," Johnny says.

They sit with their arms folded and eyes narrowed, as if either of them is going to cave from staring. Johnny quirks a smile, hoping to rattle Ryan, but Ryan grins back and licks his lips. Johnny blows a kiss.

"Count of three," Ryan says. "We'll do it at the same time."

"I don't trust you," Johnny says. But he does trust Ryan, not only in the big picture, but in the knowledge that Ryan wants the reward. Johnny would spend the whole night with Ryan's dick in him either way, but Ryan doesn't know that, and Johnny doesn't mind letting him think otherwise.

Ben sighs loudly like a frazzled mother. "If I count to three, will you two both just eat your cake? And then get a room?"

Ben counts. They dig in. Their forks clink together, and it feels like their tongues have touched. It's cheap, chain-restaurant cheesecake, like over-sweetened butter, but Johnny takes a second forkful anyway. His body is done competing even if his head isn't.

He goes outside with Tanith for a cigarette, his real dessert. Tanith says, "Meryl and Jeremy are talking about going out dancing. I know they're not your favorite people, but you'd be invited."

"I'm planning on spending my night with my legs over my head," Johnny says with a smile.

"Got someone in mind?"

"Already had someone once tonight." He takes a long, triumphant drag on his cigarette.

She shakes her head. "How do you get these straight boys to go to bed with you?"

"I don't assume they're straight," Johnny says. "And Ryan never really was, anyway."

She breaks into a self-satisfied grin, the smoke from her cigarette curling in front of it. "See how I snuck that out of you?" She kisses his cheek. "Have fun with your legs over your head."

"You too." Johnny stubs out his cigarette.

Back in the hotel, Ryan makes Johnny wait, claiming he needs a shower. Johnny has no reason to feel nervous, but he primps like he's about to step on the ice. He's so busy perfecting his eyebrows, he doesn't feel his phone vibrate with Ryan's booty call text. Who does Ryan think he is, making Johnny go over to his place? "Come over here, bitch," Johnny texts back.

"Can't. No clothes on."

Fine, Ryan wins. When Johnny arrives, he's sitting on the bed, naked as promised, hair still wet. Johnny leaps into Ryan's lap and kisses him until he's flat on his back. Ryan smells like hotel soap and tastes slightly of strawberry cheesecake.

Holding Ryan down with a knee in his solar plexus, Johnny sits up to take off his clothes. There's no chance Ryan is going to move, but Johnny likes the fiction that he's Queen of the Bed. He makes himself ignore the twinge in his brain that can't stand his clothes on the floor, getting wrinkled, crying out for an iron and a hanger. He _will_ make them wait. He is the queen of this whole hotel room.

He lies on top of Ryan, Ryan's legs wrapped around his thighs, Ryan's dick stiffening against his hip as they kiss. Ryan's fast, hitched breath makes Johnny feel like he's riding waves. Ryan squeezes Johnny's nipple, twisting it between his fingers, and Johnny's dick jolts awake. He grips Ryan's arm and nips Ryan's neck, leaving marks with his nails and his teeth. He wants to rip into Ryan, to get inside him.

Johnny glides his tongue down Ryan's marble-smooth abs. He's not sure where he's headed; he wants to touch all of Ryan at once. "Are you going down on me again?" Ryan says. He sounds disappointed.

"No," Johnny says, but now he has to figure out what he _is_ doing. He takes Ryan's dick in his hand and runs his thumb up and down the shaft. "But you'll have a hard time fucking me from here."

"Hey, you're on top now. Go for it." Ryan's voice gets high when he's straining with pleasure.

Lost in that, it's a moment before Johnny realizes what he's just been asked to do. "You want to _bottom?_ "

"Why not?" 

_Because that's not how it goes,_ Johnny almost says. But he doesn't like that reason any more than Ryan seems to.

"You were being really aggressive," Ryan says. "Just go with it."

Johnny claws Ryan's chest, kittenish and femme. "You want me _in_ you?" He's starting to love the idea.

Ryan has lined up condoms and lube next to the alarm clock. Distracted by the spectacle of Ryan's body, Johnny has only just noticed. He lubes up his hand and fingers Ryan's ass. Ryan moans and pushes back against him. He needs to stop being shocked and scandalized that Ryan likes it up the ass. Bottoming feels amazing – if it didn't, no one would volunteer.

Of course, so does being on top, and the anticipation alone keeps Johnny hard. Tense or out of practice, Ryan is tight, so Johnny is still fingering him and has time to think. Four years since he's done this, more than that. Four years since he was last in a relationship. _Maybe it's time_ gets stuck in his head, a vicious obsession, since this isn't one and can't be one.

"Ready?" Johnny says, and Ryan makes a sound that isn't quite a word but is more like _yes_ than _no_. Johnny squares his hips and works into Ryan gradually, waiting for a clench or a cry of pain, but Ryan yields each time with a happy moan. Ryan can take him, and he can let it be all about his own dick, pounding into Ryan with power he'd forgotten he has. Ryan's an active bottom, thrashing and noisy. Johnny slings Ryan's leg over his own shoulder to hold Ryan steady and hugs Ryan's thigh to keep his own balance. The pleasure controls Johnny's hips and pushes him in rougher. Aggressive. He comes, the ecstasy over too quickly, heavenly as it ebbs away.

He rolls off of Ryan and tosses the condom. Ryan's still gaining momentum, skin flushed and dick swollen. It doesn't take much to finish Ryan off with his mouth.

Johnny wants to be held, but his skin prickles and itches with sweat. He excuses himself weakly and goes to the bathroom to wash up, grabbing his clothes on the way so he can drape them over the shower curtain rod. Maybe he can steam them back to life. 

In the bathroom doorway, he remembers himself. His sated body feels like it's been dipped in sunshine. He pirouettes as he shuts the door. Alone, he vogues in the mirror, a pretty little sex god.

~o~

Abandoned on the bed, Ryan reaches for his phone. This was a stupid idea. He's going to be sore in the morning, and he has to skate all day tomorrow. All the more motivation not to fall on his ass.

He texts Bates. "10 min after. Not just oral."

Bates is probably asleep, and all he can hear of Johnny is running water and the occasional out-of-tune line of Lady Gaga. Ryan's roomed with Johnny at competitions, so the long bathroom sojourns are no surprise. At the Gardena Trophy when they were fifteen, Ryan had to go without a shower because he couldn't get in. When he won, he claimed his stink had impressed the judges. After the competition, he remembers smoking out the window with Johnny, making fun of their douchebag competitors. Ryan's first cigarette, Johnny already an addict.

Now, Johnny comes strutting out of the bathroom with his supermodel face on. At the foot of the bed, he makes a sharp 180 and shakes his ass. He's obviously trying to get a laugh out of Ryan, and it works. Sometimes, when people joke around with Ryan, it feels like they're auditioning: they know he's the funny guy, and they're testing their material. Johnny knows how cute he is and knows he has nobody to impress.

Johnny hops onto the bed and nestles himself in Ryan's arms, wriggling until they fit together. Ryan gets the impression that he's supposed to say something, but he shouldn't always have to be responsible for that. He pulls Johnny tighter into his embrace and kisses the back of his neck.

Ryan's phone chirps: new message. Ryan ignores it, but Johnny grabs it off the nightstand. "Who's texting you?" Johnny squeals.

Ryan snatches the phone out of Johnny's hand. "Probably Bates."

Sure enough, his phone says, "Congrats. Telling everyone we know."

Johnny cranes his neck to read the message. "Did you kiss and text?"

"He already knew. About you and me. He's pretty much cheering us on," Ryan says. "I was... giving him the score update."

Johnny snorts. "So you're bragging about me to all your friends?" 

"Just Bates. Because he won't _actually_ tell everyone we know."

"Yeah, but Tanith will," Johnny says. "She kind of got it out of me tonight."

Ryan's not sure why they were keeping it secret in the first place. They should be proud of themselves. "So much for Charlie thinking we're fucking with him."

"Hang on. This isn't fair." Johnny jumps off the bed. "I left my phone in the bathroom." He dances off to get it and comes back texting. "There. Now we'll be on the front page of the Dingle News."

Ryan isn't sure what that means. Johnny knows all of Ryan's friends, because Ryan's never had much of a life beyond figure skating. Johnny, on the other hand, has always lived a double life, a whole other self that he never let his competitors see but alluded to so they knew they didn't have the privilege. Ryan has never minded being shut out. This other Johnny is a stranger, and Ryan's afraid of not liking him.

Johnny has settled back into bed. He's wrapped himself around Ryan like a parasitic alien who plans to siphon off Ryan's life force. "You're so much quieter when you're alone," Johnny says. "You're a whole different person."

"My batteries are low," Ryan says.

Johnny gropes Ryan's dick. Ryan's so wiped, it doesn't really feel good. "Yeah, you're done," Johnny says. "But you seemed like you were having fun."

"You're so shocked. It's hilarious. Yes, I've done it before, and – you said you liked it when I went for your dick."

"I do," Johnny says. "I like my dick. I think other people should like it, too."

"You're very generous."

Johnny kisses the bridge of Ryan's nose, making him close his eyes. "Are you falling asleep?"

Ryan nods, and his lips brush Johnny's face.

"I might have to go back to my room," Johnny says. "I might need a sleeping pill. And clean sheets."

"That's fine," Ryan says, but he pulls Johnny closer, making the mixed message clear.

"I was going to stay for a while. Until you're asleep. I just don't want you to be hurt if I'm gone in the morning."

"I won't be." Ryan reaches over Johnny to turn out the light.

In the morning, Johnny's there, sprawled across Ryan's body when the alarm clock goes off. Ryan knocks a box of condoms to the floor as he bolts to the bathroom. Johnny catches up to him – Ryan's bad foot is still slowing him down – and tackles him to the floor. "Remember that competition in Germany when I got nervous and locked myself in the bathroom to cry and throw up, and you didn't get to take a shower?" Johnny says.

"Italy," Ryan corrects him.

Johnny strokes Ryan's face and kisses him. "I had the biggest crush on you then."

"Do you still?" 

"No," Johnny says. "Now I just _adore_ you."

**FOUR.**

For a week after he gets home from Youngstown, Johnny believes he has a boyfriend. That's not how they left it: friends with benefits, no commitment. The physical distance and Johnny's overbooked schedule make a relationship impossible. In Ohio, Johnny hoped Ryan would argue with him, get down on his knees and pledge his love, but he said Johnny was right, and they shouldn't raise their expectations too high. Anyway, Johnny doesn't believe in relationships. People get into trouble when they try to get their love and their sex in the same place. As much as he wants Ryan to be the exception, he knows his heart and his dick are conspiring to deceive him.

The producers and camera crew show up to start filming the second season of _Be Good Johnny Weir._ The documentary was completely seat-of-the-pants and disorganized, the first season low-budget and loose, but both were hits so now they have some cash. So there's planning the show in addition to writing his book, sketching his fashion line, organizing his skating spectacular, performing in skating shows, judging pageants, and appearing at parties. It's a good thing he gave up eating and sleeping years ago, because he has no time for either.

Johnny and Ryan text back and forth once in a while, mostly dick jokes, clever ways of saying _I wish you were here so I could fuck you._ It's all Johnny can squeeze into his schedule.

One Wednesday night, he manages to outrun all his commitments and fire up the Wii. He's hoping for some Kart with the Dingles, but Bates is online with an extra gift code for Shaun White Snowboarding that he has apparently promised to give to a fellow Olympian. Johnny calls him so they can trash talk while they wipe out in the fake snow. "Sidney Crosby not returning your calls?" Johnny says.

"Like I would give a free video game to a fucking Penguin," Bates says. "Come on now."

"He's just mad you didn't send him a thank-you note after you fucked him. Canadians like that. Especially with scented stationery."

"I _told_ you," Bates says. "The Canadian hockey player I hooked up with at the Village was a _girl._ "

"Bet she'd appreciate a scented thank-you note, too."

They're both terrible at Shaun White Snowboarding. New games make everything equal. After a few rounds, Johnny's _trying_ to wipe out as dramatically and creatively as possible.

"So have you talked to Ryan?" Bates has never been the subtle type.

"You obviously have."

"He's kind of my best friend. So yeah." Bates sounds so confident in this, Johnny doesn't want to break it to him that Ryan is kind of everybody's best friend.

"We've texted a few times. I'm really busy."

"He might not need a thank-you note," Bates says, "But I think he'd appreciate, you know, more than a text."

"Point taken. I'll call tomorrow."

Bates has figured out how to do one spinny flippy move, and he's doing it over and over to rack up points. He says, "Ryan's fucking miserable out there."

"Give it a rest. I said I'd call him."

"Yeah, but, like - I just – I'm worried," Bates says. "and it's not, like, I don't get involved, normally, but - I thought you might care, but I guess I was wrong, so – whatever, man. Just move along."

Johnny's been guilt-tripped into a corner. "I didn't know," he says. "What's going on?"

"You know he won't complain about it, but, like – he's coaching part time, he's doing all this stuff for the skating club that they won't pay him for, and because he's Ryan he can't say no, but I'm like, really? He has a business degree from a pretty good school, he should be doing _something,_ not just turning into one of those losers who never gets out of the rink because they can't do anything else." Bates sounds passionately upset – maybe afraid for himself, a few years down the road.

Johnny bites his lip. He knows that fear: it's why he's doing everything he can think of that someone might pay him for. "What can I do?" 

"Get him to go visit you," Bates says, like he has been formulating this plan and is sure it will work. "Maybe he'll stay."

"I invited him. He doesn't like New York." Johnny presses random buttons and finally figures out how to do something cool with his snowboard. "Or he says he doesn't. Anyway, we're going to start filming the show, like, by the time he'd get here, and I'm not really boyfriend material now. Or ever."

"Tell him he'll be on TV. That'll get him on a plane." Bates's snowboarder bites the dust and tumbles down the mountain. "You know it would, right?"

That's just what Johnny needs: a TV boyfriend. He's never been the kind to come to anyone's rescue. He wants to be rescued and carried away, and he doesn't know how to be on the other side. He's going to mess it up, and then Ryan really won't love him anymore. If Ryan ever loved him. 

What does Johnny care? He's not in love. He's too strong for that.

Except that he is, and maybe he'll be happier if he gives himself permission to be. Just to see where it goes, and then he can bail when love turns out to be the same bad idea it's always been.

~o~

Ryan's filling out release forms in Johnny's kitchen. He's there because Johnny begged him to come to Jersey and be on the reality show. That's the official story, but honestly, he's there because Johnny called, period. He spends most of his days in the Broadmoor Skating Club office with his phone on his desk, using his mental powers to make it ring. To get himself invited somewhere he hasn't already overstayed his welcome so he can have a few days of fun.

So he's in New Jersey. Johnny's hiding in his bedroom, waiting for Ryan to sign his releases. The producer has explained that they want Johnny's welcome to be genuine, not a re-enactment. 

Other things that Ryan apparently needs to know: he should avoid swearing and keep his clothes on. No shirts with brand-name logos and no singing copyrighted songs. He should act naturally and pretend the camera isn't there, except in the direct-to-camera interviews, which they'll run right before he leaves. Relax! He should relax.

Oh, and by the way? Whatever is going on with him and Johnny – and the producer is not sure what that is, himself, because Johnny keeps giving non-answers, which are clearly annoying the shit out of the producer – for the purposes of television, Ryan and Johnny are friends. Without benefits. So when the cameras are on, hands off.

Ryan smiles and okays and signs his name.

The producer clears him to knock on Johnny's door. Ryan is expecting Johnny to leap into his arms like a fairy-princess linebacker, and he braces himself physically so Johnny doesn't knock him to the ground. But Johnny keeps his feet on the floor and gives Ryan a restrained hug. Ryan prolongs it, tucking Johnny's head forward to rest on his shoulder. He wants to absorb the pleasure of touching Johnny, even though it isn't sexual, especially because it isn't.

The producers want to get some footage in now, so Ryan and Johnny can have the evening to themselves. This is expressed as if they have a choice, but before Ryan can request a nap, Johnny says, "Let's go for a ride." He drives Ryan around the New Jersey suburbs, pointing out boutiques, parks, places where his friends live, and the ice rink. Ryan more or less gets his nap. He feels bad that the camera crew are wasting their time, so he offers a few lame jokes.

They go out for sushi, the standby cuisine of the self-denying figure skater. The restaurant seems ready for them, with space cleared for the camera and sound crews to set up. They loom like evil trees.

Johnny seems not to notice them anymore. "I'd rather not get the rolls, because they're full of mayo and avocados and, you know, fat. Do you do squid? I love it. It's slimy."

"I'm a big fan of tentacles," Ryan says.

"You're gorgeous. I love you so much." He's making Ryan wonder how much he means that. "One of my friends won't eat anything unless it's cooked. And Nico won't even eat fish. They're like my aunt who's never left Lancaster County."

"I thought gay guys didn't like fish. As a rule." Was that too dirty for TV? Shit.

Johnny leans forward with a wicked smile. "I think everyone should try fish. At least once before, they, um -"

"- Commit to being a full-time meat eater," Ryan finishes.

Johnny starts laughing, appears to recover, gives Ryan a look that is more Blue Steel than serious, and cracks up again. It's not really that funny, but it's the right moment. As Johnny releases his tension, Ryan can see how much pressure he's been under.

"What? I just think it's healthy to enjoy a wide variety of foods." Ryan tries to look innocent.

"Before you settle down with one protein for the rest of your life." Johnny is giggling before he gets to the end of the sentence.

"Then I guess I should tell you the good news," Ryan says. "Tuna and I are in love. I'm swearing off all the other fish."

Johnny burlesques a gasp. "We'll see what _squid_ has to say about that."

"You're right! How could I let squid go?" Ryan wipes away an imaginary tear. "All those hot calamari nights, wrapped in her chewy tentacles..."

"Just accept it," Johnny says. "You're a sushi slut."

"And that's all I'll ever be." Ryan almost falls out of his chair pretending to swoon. As he gathers back his balance and dignity, it's clear to him: however this weekend turns out, it's going to end with his face on TV.

So that's how it's going to be between him and the reality-TV-viewing public. He wishes things were as clear between him and Johnny. But he keeps going back and forth on how he feels, between these moments when everything clicks and the long stretches when Johnny's life is another country where Ryan will always be a tourist. Even if Johnny invites Ryan in, which he won't, Ryan will have to turn him down and go home. Caught up in possibilities, he grounds himself, knowing that.

~o~

Johnny shoos the TV crew away after dinner. When he and Ryan are safely soundproofed inside the car, he says, "Now I'm going to take you home so you can fuck me until I can't walk." The line sounds as sexy out loud as it did when he rehearsed it in his head.

"As long as you can still skate in the morning," Ryan says. They have practice ice reserved at the crack of dawn. Ryan's back to landing triples, and he says he's never again going more than forty-eight hours without skating. Johnny hopes some of Ryan's persistence will stick to him and push him through his show programs. He doesn't care if he ever does a quad again, but he wants to be beautiful and polished for his fans.

The moment they're back in Johnny's apartment, he takes off his clothes. Ryan raises an eyebrow but follows suit. Johnny leads Ryan into the bedroom with kisses and ass gropes. He's been hard since they were in the car; he feels like he's been hard since Ryan booked his flight. He wants to be fucked out of his mind. But Ryan is saying, "Hey, wait, I need you to work me up a little."

Johnny doesn't mean to, but he sighs loudly. "You don't want to do this now?"

"No, I do, I've just been on a plane all day, and I put in a couple hours at the rink before that, so – I'm not your dick on demand tonight."

It's just a joke, but it hurts. "Is that why you think you're here?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"No, I missed you," Johnny says. "I wanted to be with you. I thought maybe I could sweep you off your feet a little."

Ryan's standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at Johnny. He seems menacing and far away. "I thought we weren't doing that."

"Doing what?" 

"The boyfriend thing," Ryan says heavily.

"How are we supposed to do that? Even if I wanted to, you're two thousand miles away, and I am _way_ too busy to be jumping on a plane all the time."

"Yeah, well," Ryan says. "Call me when your fifteen minutes are up." He's raising his voice, but Johnny realizes he raised his own first.

Johnny stands on the bed, making himself tall. "Don't blame me for trying to do something with myself."

"Doing something? You're putting your clothes on backwards and teasing your hair and hoping someone takes a picture of you." Ryan is shouting up at him like he's had a giant ball of anger in his stomach, sleeping, that's just woken up. "That's not the future. That's hanging onto the spotlight for a few more seconds before you're just another washed-up skater who never made it to the top of the podium and never learned how to do anything else."

"I'm learning," Johnny yells. He kind of hopes the neighbors call the cops. "Something's going to stick, and until then, I might as well be pretty. It's better than hiding. It's better than being ashamed of myself."

"I'm not hiding." Ryan sounds weak.

"No. You're wasting away."

"No, I'm making a life," Ryan says. "It might not be glamorous, but it's mine. My life is in Colorado, and I'm sorry you don't like that, but _my life is there._ As much as yours is here."

"Your life is there, my ass," Johnny says. "Your friends are all in Michigan, and I'm here, and -"

"And what are you?" Ryan roars. "What are you to me?"

"I don't know what the fuck I am to you." Johnny's eyes are tearing up, and he's tired of fighting. He wants to lie on his back and let Ryan be the alpha wolf. But Johnny never can let go of his dominance. He wants all those other bitches to kneel. If it weren't for the lilt in his voice and the swish in his step, that would make him an athlete, a competitor. Something admirable, not another harmless diva in furs and heels. "I want to be the best thing that's ever happened to you. But you won't let me."

"Don't flatter yourself, Johnny."

"No, what I meant was - I feel like you're the best thing that's happened to me in a while. And I was hoping you felt that way too."

Ryan's silent, his face a rainbow of emotions. Johnny thinks it's going to end with Ryan holding him and telling him how wonderful he is, but instead, Ryan says, "You can't just say something romantic and magically fix everything." 

"You wanted to know how I felt, and I told you," Johnny says, quieter now. He sits down, the bed bouncing under him. "What the hell else do you want from me?"

Ryan sits down next to him, their hips touching. "I wanted you to tell me you didn't feel like that."

"Are you breaking up with me?" Johnny says.

"I - I just want to be your friend."

"That," Johnny says, "is not an option."

Ryan laughs darkly. "Except on TV."

"Yeah, that's the producers hedging their bets."

"And you, too," Ryan says.

Johnny turns Ryan's head with his hand so Ryan has to look at him. "You really just want to be friends?"

"I don't know," Ryan says, kissing him. "Can we see how this weekend goes?"

Johnny's not getting the answer he wants to hear – neither of them are – so he gives Ryan a bitter, honest kiss.

~o~

Ryan feels about eighty years old. After a night of angry sex, he and Johnny got up at dawn for an hour and a half on the ice, an hour at the gym, a two-mile run home because Johnny was starting to whine and Ryan had to show him up, and a two-mile walk back to the gym to get Johnny's car and their stuff. Now, Johnny is the one singing in the shower, and Ryan is icing his foot and balancing his checkbook.

Johnny comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel turban. "Are you doing _math?_ " He kisses the top of Ryan's head. "That's so cute."

"I thought I'd do my finances while you put on your evening face."

"Ooh, maybe later you can do mine," Johnny says, like Ryan's just revealed a sexy secret. "My finances, I'm not letting you anywhere near my make-up drawer. I try to keep track of all the money, but it's such a mess, all these checks from a million different places that show up three months after I did the thing."

It's presumptuous of Johnny to ask, but Ryan says, "Sure." It's a favor he can do as a friend, not as a whatever-other-thing that he doesn't want to think about.

Johnny drapes his arms over Ryan's shoulders. He's warm from the shower. "I keep everything in folders, I'll give them to you, you can take your time with it."

"I'll bill you ten percent of whatever I find," Ryan says.

Johnny just kisses him again. His hands are drifting down Ryan's chest. By the time he gets to Ryan's dick, it'll be hard. Ryan is getting used to Johnny having that effect on him. It's like Johnny's finally gotten big enough for his personality. He's an exotic bird, and for Ryan, he spreads all his feathers.

Johnny walks his fingers back up to Ryan's face and strokes his cheek. "Don't pretend I'm the only one with a skin care plan. I know what you do in there." He brushes back Ryan's hair to kiss his forehead. "You've always been cute, but lately it's like you took off your mask and now I'm _really_ attracted to you. And I know you're still kind of pissed at me, and I know this is probably it, after this weekend, and I don't know what you want me to do different, and honestly I'd just go back to being me in five minutes, so I'm telling you all the important stuff. Which is, you have never been as sexy as you are now, and you are just gorgeous and stunning and honey, you're just going to sit there and let me compliment you, aren't you."

"Keep going. It's working." Ryan senses that this is feeding Johnny's ego as much as his own.

Johnny pinches Ryan's nipple through his shirt, making Ryan's toes curl. "You have beautiful eyes. You're fucking great at NHL. You're nice to everyone, even the people who talk shit about you behind your back, and you're extra nice when you know they're doing it, so they have to feel bad about it." He rolls Ryan's shirt up to expose his stomach. "And the rest, I need a reminder, so you're just going to have to take your clothes off."

"What if you've already made my ego so huge it doesn't fit in the room?" Ryan says.

"Well, I'd still want to suck your dick." Johnny slinks around Ryan and straddles his lap. He pulls Ryan's jeans and underwear down to his knees. "Because this. Is _luscious._ " He runs his hand slowly over Ryan's dick. He's been palming a condom the whole time. With a flick of his wrist and a shift of his hips, he's riding Ryan like a cowboy, one hand clutching Ryan's shirt, barely giving Ryan room to thrust.

"All you need is a lasso," Ryan says.

"Or a whip." Johnny mimes cracking one across Ryan's chest. "We do better when we're making each other laugh."

"Yeah. So no more serious conversations," Ryan says. "Ever again." He arches his back up and grabs Johnny's hips, bucking up into him, making him scream loud and high. Johnny's dick is right in Ryan's line of sight now, swollen against Johnny's androgynous frame, swinging as Johnny pumps himself up and down on Ryan. He comes all over Ryan's shirt, and watching him sends Ryan over the edge.

Ryan takes off his stained shirt. "There are other ways to get me to buy new clothes."

Johnny snickers. His phone is ringing. "Crap, has that been going off a lot?"

"A few times," Ryan says.

"If it's my friends, I'll blow them off for you. But I have a feeling it's show planning stuff." He could be complaining about any job.

"Do what you need to do," Ryan says. "Hey, maybe you can bring me those folders, and I can get started. If you were serious about that."

"You're a _darling._ " Johnny kisses him and skips off, returning with some pants on and his arms full of day-glo plastic file folders. "Good luck."

Johnny's very organized. He saves every credit card bill and copies his checks. He does _nothing_ online. He doesn't have a savings account. It's clear Johnny has no idea how much money he has, coming in or going out.

It's a puzzle much easier than the ones Ryan solved for homework in his college finance classes, but it's complicated enough to keep him occupied while Johnny's on the phone, his voice lilting unintelligibly from behind the closed bedroom door. The further along Ryan gets in the spreadsheet he's made, the clearer it is that Johnny needs to be running himself like a business. He's selling himself for a profit, and he's bringing in more than he probably realizes. He's throwing away cash to his agent and overpaying for insurance. Ryan spreadsheets it out and bullet-points a plan. He's done and playing solitaire on his computer before Johnny's off the phone.

"Still up for going out tonight?" Johnny says, although it doesn't look like _he_ is. He brightens up when Ryan shows him the spreadsheet, and his eyes get cartoon dollar signs in them when he sees how much money he could be making. "How the fuck was I coming up short?" He sounds overjoyed and enraged at the same time.

"At least you've figured out how to bring it in," Ryan says.

"You will, too. Or wait. Maybe you have." He waves his pink file folder in the air.

"Because there's such a market for financial planning these days. I'd have to get a master's in finance to even get my foot in the door."

"Word of mouth," Johnny says. "That's how everything works. I know a ton of people who'd hire you." He puts Ryan's name up in imaginary lights. "Ryan Bradley, Diva Wrangler."

Ryan feels himself blushing. "Yeah, well, maybe."

"You're really going back to Colorado at the end of this weekend, aren't you?" Johnny says. "And there's nothing I can say."

"I know you're really trying to sell me on New Jersey."

"Wait 'til you see New York," Johnny says. "Then you'll be _sold._ "

Ryan shakes his head. "It's not the life I want. I'm a small-town boy."

Johnny gives Ryan the saddest kiss he has ever received.

They go out as they'd planned, dinner and dancing, drinks with Johnny's wild and flamboyant friends. Ryan's impression of them was wrong: they're warm and welcoming, not at all dumb, and Ryan can see why Johnny likes them. Ryan and Johnny get back to New Jersey at about the same time they woke up to skate and fall into bed, too tired for sex. And there's no time for it after that: they go to the gym and then out for what Johnny calls traditional New Jersey leisure activities, which turn out to be skee ball and air hockey. After a friendly hug in the airport drop-off zone, Ryan's on a plane back to Colorado, back where he started.

**FIVE.**

"You're better off," Paris is trying to convince Johnny. "He's your past. He's like a ghost. You had to fuck him one last time with 'Unchained Melody' playing in the background."

"He's a hot ghost with a big cock," Johnny sulks.

"A ghost who doesn't love you."

"I think he loves me," Johnny says.

"Has he ever even said it?"

Johnny sucks on his spoon. Paris has talked him into Pinkberry. He can feel the cellulite forming. "Not in so many words."

Paris gives him a withering look. "No."

"It's not like I told him, either."

"Okay. That's it. I'm staging an intervention," Paris says. "I'm calling an emergency Dingle meeting, and we're going to find you a man, since you're obviously not qualified to find your own."

"I'd rather embrace celibacy," Johnny says.

"A man who lives here and has things in common with you. A man who doesn't have heterosexuality issues. Come on, you know you want it."

"I'm bored already," Johnny says.

"We're your friends. We wouldn't set you up with anyone gross. Please. Just trust us a little. For a few dates." Paris sounds like someone who, unlike Johnny, could really use a boyfriend.

"Girl, if I find _you_ a man, will you leave me alone?" Johnny says.

Paris licks the back of his spoon suggestively. "Got anyone in mind?"

"I know a few people."

"You're on," Paris says. "Find me a man, bitch." He eats his yogurt, looking thoughtful. "And let me know when you're not so heartbroken, so I can find you one, too."

"It's not about that," Johnny tries to explain. "I'm happy on my own. I'm _happier._ As you've _seen._ So I feel like if I'm going to fall in love, it's going to just happen. the hand of fate. I thought that's what was going on with Ryan. I still think so. I think he rejected _fate._ "

"That fucking bastard," Paris says.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not," Paris says. "You been done wrong."

Johnny swoops a tongueful of yogurt right from the cup. "I been done wrong, and I'm'a eat my feelings," he sings.

~o~

Ryan's out on a date with a girl. Her name is Nicole, and she's a trainer at the gym at the Olympic Center. Five foot two, brunette, built like a rock, completely his type. They're having a sunset picnic in Cheyenne Mountain Park. He lends her his sweater. It's romantic.

"No, I'm serious," she's saying. "You should take me golfing next time. I want to learn to swing."

"Maybe miniature golfing. Maybe XBox Golf."

She laughs. "Whatever you want, I'm sure it'll be fun."

"What I want is no emergency room trips before the third date."

She pats his hand. "You're cute."

He's been softballing jokes to Nicole all afternoon, waiting for her to hit one back. It's time for him to give up on that. She thinks he's cute, and she wants a second date. He's marginally competent at getting girls to like him.

Now that his foot is healed, he's getting his life together. In addition to going on dates with someone he might have an actual future with, he's looking into financial planning. He'll have to get a master's degree and certification eventually, but he could learn on the job. He's excited about having a talent that begins in his brain, not in his body. He has a goal again, something to work for.

Any minute now, he'll be happy.

Until then, he skates. He teaches basic skills to six-year-olds whose parents regard him with chilly suspicion. He figures out how to knock five dollars off the dues of every member of the Broadmoor Skating Club and still run a surplus on the operating budget, and the board shoots him down for expecting too many changes. His parents want him to move out, but when he thinks of committing to a lease, his hands freeze.

He takes Nicole miniature golfing and kisses her at the eighteenth hole. She brings him to a minor-league hockey game and out for bad pizza. They avoid the emergency room and have sex instead. She makes him come, but she doesn't make him laugh.

That's not true. Inside her, he closes his eyes and thinks about dicks. How if he were on top of a guy, in this position, he'd feel the hard throb of a dick against his stomach. He doesn't pretend she's not there, but he also doesn't pretend her body is what's turning him on.

He's always liked the idea of girls more than he's liked dating them. He loves the fantasy of drawing a girl in and getting her to love him, and the fantasy of the wife and kids and dog and house. He's always had straight _plans._

He doesn't want to be the guy who sleeps with a girl and never calls her back, so he takes Nicole out one more time. When she starts getting hint-y, he says, "I'm in love with someone else, and I'm not really over them yet, and I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"That's the first serious thing I think you've said to me." Perversely, he's glad that at the end, she's made him dislike her.

He decides he'd rather be single. He spends his nights playing Halo alone. He's avoiding the gym, so he runs through the sloping suburban streets with his iPod full of pissed-off old-school hip hop. He skates until he can hardly stand, overrotating on purpose so he'll fall, so Tom yells, "What are you doing? Are you trying to re-injure yourself?" 

His friends are busy training for competition, so they don't have time to make sure he's okay. Solitude becomes the norm, and he doesn't mind: it's less work. When he gets a call from Meryl, he's almost forgotten how to communicate with other human beings. She wants to know if he's coming in again this year for Thanksgiving/Charlie's birthday/his own birthday. "We're off to Japan next week," she says, "so of course all I can think about is cake."

"Do you want me to go?" Ryan says. "Sure, I'll go."

"Good. I'll tell Charlie and Bates. They'll be glad to hear it." He's imagining her otherworldly smile when she gets what she wants. She says, "You know all of us always want you here."

"If you keep baking me cake, I'll be there all the time," Ryan says. "I'm retired. I can have all the cake I want."

"You're going to give up your abs and turn into a fat ex-skater?" Meryl teases.

"I'm going to turn into Madame Tarasova. I'll wear caftans with feathers on them."

"Wow, Ryan, you are spending too much time with Johnny Weir," Meryl says.

"I'm not spending _any_ time with Johnny Weir." He feels like she just stabbed his bad foot with a three-inch stiletto heel.

She's silent, getting it. "Oh. I'm – I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Ryan says. "I'm the one who broke it off. Too much distance, you know, it was never going to work out."

"And also he's insane?" she giggles.

"And also I'm not remotely gay enough for that," he says. "You know. The feathers."

Now she's laughing _at_ him.

"What?"

"You were the last one," she says. "God, I really have terminal fag hag disease."

"The last what?" He's mostly curious to see how she'll phrase it.

"It was why I liked you," she says. "I thought you might be just straight enough to be into me."

"I was. I still am. I loved you." He's not sure he told her that at the time, when it would have been a smart move. He's certain that he felt it, though. He remembers the rush of kissing her, the mean jokes she'd whisper that would make him feel special and chosen. "I have a thing for divas."

"So it's a self-love thing?" Meryl says. "Come on. Look at yourself. You only get away with any of it because you're butch."

"Not everyone's born with giant bedroom eyes. We all work with what we've got."

"And you've done remarkably well for someone who has _nothing,_ " she says, with a twinkle in her voice that lets him know she means the opposite. 

"Practice and determination," Ryan says.

She changes the subject like she always used to when the conversation was on the verge of going deep. "I'm so glad you're coming here," she says. "I'm baking you so much cake. Rainbow cake with pink frosting and, like, giant dicks sticking out of it."

"And _Happy Birthday Charlie_ in big letters."

"I would never do that to someone who can drop me and call it an accident."

"Sure you would," Ryan says. "It's why we're still friends."

"Is that it? I wasn't sure." But she must be sure, because he is. They're friends because they haven't worn all the love out of each other.

But she's not taking him back. That whole past life, it's not taking him back. Maybe his friends are right, and he needs a change of scenery. Just for a while, and then he can go back home to Colorado. For himself, to find his feet. Not for Johnny. Absolutely not for Johnny.

~o~

Johnny's dodging his calls and taking a spa day. He's up to his shins in rejuvenating foot treatment while he defies aging, minimizes his pores, and dramatically thickens his hair. His manicure is almost dry, and he has half an hour of shiatsu booked later. He'd rather have a massage than a boyfriend, or so he has convinced himself until his phone rings with the tone he's reserved for his old skating friends, and his heart skips with the possibility that it's Ryan. It's not that he doesn't want to get over Ryan – it's that he holds out hope that he won't have to.

But it's Charlie, who has somehow been put up to the task of luring Johnny out to Detroit, a feat no skater has previously achieved. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" 

"Eating scrapple in Lancaster County and then working out for days," Johnny says.

"What about the day after?" Charlie's definitely persistent. Johnny enjoys it: he feels wanted.

"Black Friday? Shopping."

"Maybe you could take Tan. She's actually dying to see you." It's probably not a lie. Johnny and Tanith have been hanging out a lot on WiiConnect, playing All Star Cheer Squad and talking about accessories. She's in school and loves it; she's making him think he's ready for FIT after all. He would adore taking her shopping on Black Friday. 

But he's promised his family he'll be in Pennsylvania. "I wish I could. I haven't been to a family Thanksgiving since I was twelve. To tell the truth, it's going to be kind of fucking awkward."

"Hmm."

"That's a dangerous sound, Charles."

"No, it's just, we were talking about pushing it back a week anyway," Charlie says. "The week after is the skip before the GPF, and Bates is pissed that he's missing out on cake."

"I'll have to see," Johnny says.

"Yeah, well, let me know. What? Hang on." 

There's some shuffling and mumbling, then Tanith's sharp voice. "You'll have to see? The hell you will."

"Then don't get your boyfriend to do your dirty work for you," Johnny says.

"So you're coming."

"To Detroit in December?" Johnny scoffs. "Not fucking likely."

"Come on. You have better plans?"

"I can make some." His nose itches under his pore-minimizing mask. Maybe it's his conscience, berating him for being so bitchy.

"We do actually want to see you," Tanith says, "although at the moment I'm not sure _why._ You might be having a great time in New York, forgetting about all your old friends, but we're not going to let you go that easily. You're at least going to have to feel bad about it."

"Good job," Johnny says. "I feel bad."

"So you're coming."

"So you owe me," Johnny says.

"Name your price," she says, because she already owns him.

**SIX.**

It's not Ryan's birthday. He's already been twenty-seven for a few weeks, just as Charlie's well past twenty-three. It's also not Thanksgiving, although Ryan's been in Ann Arbor since then, eating turkey with the Whites like he's done for the past few years. He's been staying with Meryl until Bates gets back from France, helping her replace the recessed floodlights in her kitchen and eat the three loaves of pumpkin bread she baked after she saw the scores Tessa and Scott posted in Paris. If they were ever going to have sex again, they've had every opportunity. He's glad to be sleeping on her couch tension-free.

She's the only one who knows he hasn't bought a return ticket to Colorado Springs. Maybe the others sense it: Bates told him on the phone that he's welcome to stay as long as he wants. Detroit is a slab of flat concrete crusted with gray snow, but at least it's different. 

Ryan's playing an epic game of XBox Golf with Charlie. The apartment he got with Tanith is a big step up from last year's share house. Tanith's off picking people up from the airport, which has been her job since Ryan arrived, so Ryan and Charlie are alone to heckle each other vulgarly. Charlie's happy to get absorbed in the game, and Ryan appreciates that about him.

Tanith interrupts their rowdy peace by returning with Johnny in tow. He's wheeling a bloated Louis Vuitton suitcase, the kind with the designer logo patterned all over it, and he drops the handle when he locks eyes with Ryan. Arms folded, he whirls around to face Tanith. "I knew this was a set-up."

Ryan puts down his game controller noisily. "Fuck, are you kidding me?"

Tanith is flailing her arms, doing damage control. "It wasn't. I swear. Charlie, you were supposed to take him back to Meryl's."

"With what car?" Charlie says. He's tossing Ryan his coat. "Here. I can take you now."

Ryan catches his coat but doesn't put it on. "No. It's okay. We can be adults." He goes up to give Johnny a hug. Johnny rests his head against Ryan's shoulder like it's an instinct, like he can't remember how to hug him any other way. Truthfully, Ryan can't either, and a kiss on the top of Johnny's head leads to a kiss on the lips before he reminds himself there are other people in the room. 

"Should we give you some space?" Tanith says.

"Or not," Charlie chimes in. "If you'd rather have us here."

"Depends," Johnny says. "Are we lifting the 'no serious conversations' rule?" He seems to be in a nasty mood. Ryan would be too if he'd stepped off a plane and into a room full of ex-not-quite-boyfriend.

"Why don't we put that off?" Ryan says.

"Yeah, why should we do anything differently than usual?" Johnny sneers.

"Do you really want to do this now? In front of our friends?"

"Maybe we'll get somewhere this time." Johnny sounds more tired than angry. He picks up his suitcase and wheels it away from the door, then plops himself onto the couch. Ryan sets his coat down on the floor and sits on top of it, cross-legged, to face Johnny. Tanith and Charlie stand back, looking uncomfortable.

"So you'll be happy to hear I'm getting out of Colorado," Ryan says.

Charlie dashes into the kitchen. "I'm getting the champagne."

"What I'm saying is, you were right that I was unhappy," Ryan says. "I've been having a good week, and I took a tryout lesson with Yuka that went really well. But I called Viktor Petrenko, too, and we had a long talk about shifting to pro, kind of hit it off, actually. So I have options there."

Charlie passes around cups of chardonnay. "Closest we had. But cheers to getting out of the Mountains of Hell."

"You were all that desperate to get me to move?" Ryan says.

The three yeses come in virtual unison.

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Ryan says.

"John Coughlin came up to me at Skate America and begged me to airlift you out of there," says Charlie.

"Okay, maybe," Ryan concedes.

Johnny's been quiet, sipping his wine. "So what do I have to do? To get you to come to New Jersey instead of here?"

"I don't know," Ryan says. "I wish I could tell you."

Johnny gets up and walks over to Ryan, and for a second Ryan thinks he's going to get slapped. Instead, Johnny bends over to kiss him on the head. "Then I'm just going to try everything I can think of."

Ryan holds out his hand so Johnny can help him to his feet. He asks Tanith and Charlie, "Would it be disgusting if I asked if I could spend the night here?"

"That shouldn't be a problem," Charlie says too quickly, and the other three of them all glare at him. "Okay. It was kind of a set-up."

Tanith holds up her hands. "I knew nothing."

"I just thought it'd be romantic," Charlie says. "You know, if it works out."

Johnny smiles his enigmatic, up-to-something grin. "It was romantic either way."

~o~

The official party isn't until tomorrow, but everyone's at Tanith and Charlie's place anyway. Johnny and Ryan skated in the morning – Ryan pushes him to train his ass off, which leaves him feeling exhausted but skinny – and sat down to an afternoon _Entourage_ marathon. Bates wanted in on that, and he came over with four other guys from the rink. Then, Meryl called to ask if she could borrow the kitchen because her oven wasn't heating properly, and she came over with a giant box of baking supplies, Jeremy, and the Detroit Metro chapter of the American Fruitfly Society.

The other boys voted to switch to _Robot Chicken_ at the end of the first DVD, leaving Johnny overruled and bored, so he sneaks off with Tanith for some peace. "Looks like I'll have something to clean tomorrow morning," he says. "It'll keep me out of your hair."

She sits down on the edge of the bed that Johnny and Ryan have been sleeping in. "Am I going to have to burn these sheets when you leave?"

"Bleach should be enough." He sits down next to her.

"Glad you guys are having fun again," she says wickedly. The two bedrooms share a wall.

"Glad you are, too." 

"Damn, and we've been trying so hard to be quiet," Tanith says.

"Just once. It was funny." He was lying with Ryan after a round of oral and heard muffled screams. They added commentary.

She bounces on her hands, making the bed shake. "He hasn't committed to anything yet, has he?"

"Ryan? That'd be new. I'm trying not to think about it."

She rubs his back in a circle. "I'm sorry he's stressing you out."

"I think love kind of _should_ stress you out," Johnny says. "Like, that's why you get all the butterflies and happy feelings, to distract you from how you're dealing with this other person who has their own issues and flaws and, you know, bullshit."

"Is he worth it?" Tanith says.

Johnny shrugs. "Is anybody?"

She hugs him tight. He closes his eyes and drinks in the warmth of her arms. "Hey, I have an idea." She lets go of him and jumps up. "But you have to swear not to tell Charlie. I told him I got rid of this." She unlocks the top drawer of the dresser and removes a little bag of weed, a pack of cigarette papers, and a can of air freshener. She rolls a neat blunt and lights it for Johnny as he takes the first drag. He forces himself not to cough, swallowing back the rich-smelling smoke.

"I know what I need to do," he says. He can feel his nerves mellowing. "I need to, like, let him into my life, an not just schedule him. And if he was just _around,_ I wouldn't have to, he'd be there. To fill in all the spaces in between."

"You know that if you actually told him that, you'd never be able to get rid of him, right?" Tanith says.

"He doesn't hear it. All he hears is pressure. And not just me, but from a bunch of different directions." He takes another hit. The marijuana is starting to kick in, making him feel peaceful and wise. "I tried the declaration of love. That was what freaked him out so bad."

"Then I don't know," she says.

"Me neither. Let's just get stoned."

~o~

Tanith and Johnny come running out of the spare bedroom in a cloud of marijuana smoke and air freshener. "I thought you got rid of that," Charlie grumbles. Ryan doesn't know whether to be irritated that he has to sleep in there or irritated that they didn't save any for him.

"So we have this idea." Tanith is giggling hysterically. "We need to break into the rink."

"Midnight free skate." Johnny gestures like he's pitching a multimedia ice extravaganza. "We'll all put on rental skates and go in a circle. It'll be so much fucking fun."

"Well, I'm in," Bates says. Bates is always in. It's his special gift.

"You're my favorite." Johnny swoops into Bates's lap, making Ryan irrationally jealous.

"Doesn't Meryl have the keys to the rink?" Shibs asks innocently.

"Yeah." Charlie sounds like he wants to die.

"How come they never gave _me_ keys to Arctic Edge?" Tanith says.

Charlie takes her hand and kisses it. "Because they knew you'd use them to break in in the middle of the night."

This pang of jealousy is different from the first. It's rational. Ryan wants love like that. He feels like he's almost touching it, and he can't tell who's pulling it out of reach. 

Maybe he should just follow it to New Jersey and hold onto it, so it can't run away even if it tries. New Jersey has ancient green trees and rolling hills in between the shopping malls. He likes the rink there, with its springy ice and its thermostat turned way down so he's not drenched in sweat by the end of an hour. He even kind of likes New York, as long as it's a shining vacation on the other side of the river that he can leave behind when it's worn him out.

Johnny is by the door, zipping up his puffy red-and-white Russia coat. Ryan catches his eye and waves as if he's a distant figure on the horizon. Johnny puts his hand on his hip and poses, pursing his lips. His goofiness is magnetic. Ryan has almost convinced himself to let it pull him in.

Ryan turns around to look away from Johnny, avoiding his seduction. Bates is in the kitchen, loudly telling Meryl, "Just put Saran Wrap over the batter. We have to do this."

Ryan slaps Charlie on the back. "Come on Charlie! Candy Mountain!" he falsettos.

Charlie rubs his nose and chuckles. "I guess I walked into that."

"It _is_ actually going to be fun," Ryan says.

"It's going to be insanely fun."

"Then can you stop being everyone's mother, please?" 

Charlie starts to say something but makes a face instead. "Sorry, I guess I've been doing that. I just, it's like I have all these kids following me around now."

"Enjoy it. In another four years, you'll just be old."

Charlie hands Ryan his keys. "For that, you have to go warm up the car."

A few shivering minutes later, everyone else runs down to fight over who gets to ride with Ryan and the warmed-up heater. They crawl down the icy roads to the rink; skating there would be faster. When they get there, they crowd at the door, gasping with adrenaline at the snap of the lock as Meryl turns the key over. They jump over the rental counter to pick out skates. "It's not stealing if you put them back," Tanith says.

"Yeah," Bates laughs back. "It's _renting._ "

Charlie and Bates break into the audio booth and plug in Bates's iPod, condemning them all to disco classics, the Def Jam back catalog, and whatever shit Bates thinks is funny this week. They all skate around the edge of the rink at top speed, like roller derby, eventually to the point where they're trying to knock each other over. Who knew Alissa Czisny was a ruthless warrior capable of sending men twice her size skidding into the boards? But after a while, without anyone signaling or commanding it, the frenzy subsides, and they're all skating lazy laps, gliding from one conversation to another. 

Johnny and Bates are stroking down the long side of the rink in a tango hold, and then into the center. They're doing choreography, lifts and turns they have no business trying in rental skates, cracking each other up. Meryl skates over to Ryan urgently. "Why does Bates have 'Lola' on his iPod?"

"Why does Bates do anything?" Ryan says.

"You should be careful," she says. "He might steal your boyfriend."

"Not likely. He's more into hockey players."

"I thought it was just the one in Vancouver." She puts her finger to her lips. "Oh, no, wait, you're _right._ Field hockey counts."

"He's a menace to girls with sticks," Ryan says.

"Hey." Meryl squeezes Ryan's arm. "You didn't say Johnny wasn't your boyfriend."

"Forgot."

"Does he know?" she says.

"I don't know what he knows."

She hockey-stops gigantically, throwing up a spray of ice, making Ryan trip over his shoddy rental toe picks as he avoids plowing into her. "Go that way," she says, tilting her head toward Johnny. "Or no cake."

Ryan goes that way. He cuts in on Johnny and Bates's pas de deux with a possessive arm over Johnny's shoulder. Meryl is right: he's sure. He leads Johnny toward the boards. "I'm coming to New Jersey," he says. "If you still want me there."

"I think I can make some room for you," Johnny says, kissing him.

~o~

The guests have left, and Tanith and Charlie's apartment is spotless. "You're the best houseguest ever," Tanith says to Johnny as he bags up the last of the trash. "Can we hire you?"

"Maybe if this Queen of All Media thing falls through, I can start a cleaning service," Johnny says.

"Only if we can pay you in cake," Tanith says. "Look at how much we have left over."

"Well, the rest of them have to skate."

She sighs. "It's so weird _not_ to have to. Like, Charlie has a full day of practice tomorrow morning, and he's off to Korea in a week, and I'm... just here."

"Yeah, like you guys ever actually went to a Grand Prix Final."

"There were _injuries,_ " Tanith says. "That's the weird thing, though. I'm still training, I'm still traveling, but it's December, and nothing hurts."

"It's like we died and went to heaven," Johnny says.

"Yeah, well, I want my fucking halo."

"You have an Olympic medal," Johnny says. "Quit bitching."

She rolls her eyes at him and cuts a piece of cake onto a plate. "Take it back with you. Share it with Ryan." 

Johnny cheek-kisses her good night and does as he's told. Meryl outdid herself with the cake: five rainbow-colored layers with hot pink frosting and sprinkles. Ryan laughed his ass off when she cut into it but told Johnny he couldn't explain why.

Ryan's sitting in bed with his shirt off, playing some game on his phone. Johnny jumps on top of him, making him cry out, "Damn it, I crashed my spaceship." He looks up from his phone. "Really? More cake?"

"Tanith forced it on me."

"And now you're forcing yourself on me?" Ryan says. He puts down his phone and splays himself like he's making a snow angel. "Take me," he vamps.

Johnny finds a clear patch of the dresser to set the plate down on, then comes back to hold Ryan down by his wrists. "I can't force myself on you if you don't resist."

Ryan struggles halfheartedly. "I thought you were tired of me doing that."

"I don't know. It was kind of exciting." Johnny lies down on top of Ryan and kisses his chest. "So you're really coming to Jersey? Just like that?"

"It'll take a few months for me to get everything in order, but yeah. If I'm going to move, I might as well go where I have a possible job and place to live. And someone to give me head whenever I want."

Johnny bites Ryan's nipple, knowing it will make him yelp. "Who says you have any of those things?"

"Let's see." Ryan clears his throat. "I want a blow job."

Johnny rolls his eyes up at Ryan and unzips him. Instead of going down on him, however, Johnny grabs him by the balls, not enough to hurt, but enough to menace. "Tell me you love me, and I'll give you a blow job."

"How would you know if I meant it?" Ryan says.

Johnny lets go.

"Ha! Got you." Ryan bounces on the bed, taking his pants off and laughing. Naked, he crawls over to Johnny. With their lips almost touching, he says, "But I do love you."

Choosing to believe him, Johnny kisses him. "Do you still want me to go down on you?"

"I always want you to go down on me."

Johnny tackles Ryan onto his back and pushes his legs apart. Ryan is muffling his usual loud groans of pleasure out of respect for their hosts. To make that more difficult, Johnny sticks a finger in Ryan's ass until Ryan responds, tensing and twisting, bucking up into Johnny's mouth. Ryan's gotten hard quickly, as if he's been thinking about Johnny all night, impatient for him. That turns Johnny on, and now he's torn between teasing Ryan to make him last or speeding Ryan up so he can have his turn. 

He got his _I love you_ tonight, so he can stand to be generous. Johnny takes his time, licking more than sucking, stopping to breathe when Ryan seems close and letting the cool air hit him. Ryan comes just when Johnny wants him to, with a beckon of Johnny's finger, a thrust of Johnny's hand, and a flick of Johnny's tongue across the tip of his dick.

Johnny doesn't get time to admire his accomplishment, because Ryan ignores his afterglow and pounces on top of him. He's doing unspeakable things to Johnny's favorite jeans. Johnny shimmies out from underneath Ryan so he can remove his clothes neatly. He stands by the side of the bed, pointing his erection at Ryan's eye level. "What am I supposed to do with _that?_ " Ryan says.

"Whatever you want."

With Johnny's dick in his hand, thumb circling where his shaft meets his balls, Ryan says, "Oh, no. No way I'm going down that road."

"Wouldn't everybody rather just have a blow job most of the time?" Johnny says. "It's just _easier._ "

"Hell, there are times when I just want a hand job in front of the TV," Ryan says. "So I don't have to do it myself."

"If you move in with me, you're going to really regret telling me that," Johnny says, as Ryan wraps his mouth around Johnny's dick. Johnny steadies himself on Ryan's shoulders. "Get me off fast," Johnny says. "I just want to come." Ryan gives Johnny what he wants, sucking hard and in quick strokes. Ecstasy comes on suddenly and sweetly, and Johnny gives in to it.

"You're fucking great at that," Johnny says, sitting in Ryan's lap and kissing him.

"Really?" Ryan is adorably oblivious to his own talents.

"I came back for more, didn't I?" Johnny says.

"Incessantly," Ryan says.

**SEVEN.**

Ryan's in a conference room in Midtown Manhattan with Johnny and the _Be Good Johnny Weir_ production team, watching rough cuts. Going into New York City makes him anxious – the sensory overload of people and noise is more than his nerves can handle – but he's getting better at it. The East Coast wakes up in the springtime, warm but breezy, the suburbs lushly green. New Jersey isn't a bad place to live, and his homesickness is fading.

Most of the cuts center around Johnny, so while it's fun to watch them, Ryan doesn't have much input. The person on TV is a different Johnny than the one he's grown up with and gone to bed with, but that's a relief: reality TV, unlike life, has to tell a story. "Okay," one of the producers says. "Time to pay attention, Ryan. This is how we're opening up the fourth episode."

Over an exterior shot of their apartment complex, titles establish that this is New Jersey, and it's five in the morning. Ryan sees the shaky camera work in the dark and laughs, because filming this was his idea. He's wearing a plastic pith helmet, carrying a flashlight, and speaking in an unconvincing parody of an Australian accent. "You're joining me on my expedition to observe the slumbering diva in his natural habitat. Now, the most important safety tip to remember is, always wear your helmet, because at this time of morning, the diva might just try to bite your head off."

The cameraman follows Ryan into the bedroom. "Ryan Bradley," the titles at the bottom of the screen say. "Men's figure skater" fades in under his name, and then, as he taps the door open with a creak, "Johnny's boyfriend."

In the conference room, Johnny lets out a triumphant squeal. "Love it," he says.

On the screen, Ryan is wrestling Johnny out of bed so they can go skating, taking the bedspread with them as they roll off the bed in a fit of giggles. Ryan had somewhat hoped for a Viacheslav Romanov rundown of their romance so far, but instead it's Johnny's everyday voice, matter-of-factly explaining that things had been rocky and long-distance but have been going well lately. There's footage of a practice at the rink, messing up side-by-side triple flips and laughing at the boards, and then of them playing NHL in matching feather boas and fur hats. The TV-friendly version of their relationship ends with a quick kiss.

The producers call for a break and raise the lights so Johnny and Ryan can chat. "That's so cute," Johnny gushes. "I didn't realize you set that up."

"That joke wasn't meant to be my coming out party," Ryan says. "But it works pretty well." 

"I wish you could have kept your privacy longer." Johnny's book release is this weekend, a few weeks before the season premiere of the show, just enough time for cross-promotion. Even Johnny wasn't willing to come out on TV. He has a lot more to explain than Ryan does, though.

Ryan shrugs. "Better than obscurity."

"We're both too beautiful to be washed up at twenty-five," Johnny says with a flounce. "And too fabulous to be lonely."


End file.
